


Fevers

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Little Poetry, Angst, Drug Addiction, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wet Lestrade, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:05:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A few days in 2005 during which: 1) Mycroft and Lestrade fall in love; 2) Sherlock attempts to kick his drug habit; 3) the Holmes brothers are at war; and 4) nobody lives happily ever after . . . at least for awhile. Written in response to ariadnes_string's Running Hot fever meme on LJ, for a prompt by ariadnes_string, asking for Lestrade or Mycroft to help Sherlock through drug withdrawal. This story begins several months before Sherlock and Lestrade meet. Thank you to ariadnes_string for the prompt. And big thanks to the patient betaing and suggestions of fengirl88, marysutherland, and morganstuart. They made the story so much better.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ache

**Author's Note:**

> Poems referred to in this story are: Joseph Brodsky, "Love Song" and Wislawa Szymborska, "Openness."

The first dozen or so times Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes encountered each other they were not exactly themselves. They usually met in the silent, inky blue hour before dawn. Two almost naked bodies glistening wet and warm. Muscles stretching long and taut, and hearts beating at almost double their normal rate.

At first, they didn’t look at each other directly. It seemed just not the done thing to stare. Instead, each stole a glance or two whenever he could manage, trying not to draw the attention of other men nearby.

They both found it difficult at times to hide a gathering storm of desire in their eyes. Mycroft’s gaze followed the solid curves of Greg's biceps and thighs and the pattern of soft dark hair spreading across his chest and down past his waist in a beckoning path. Greg was fascinated by Mycroft’s slim, pale grace. Every movement he made seemed to be effortless, weightless—as if those long limbs were filled with air instead of flesh and bones.

Under the circumstances, they were at first quite happy to be relatively anonymous, stripped not just of their normal suits and ties, but also of their ranks and professional identities. They knew nothing of each other except first names. And in the case of Mycroft—always circumspect, withholding all valuable information—even that was a lie.

“Hey, you’ve been doing this for a while, haven’t you?” said Greg a bit shyly the first time they found themselves alone together. “I just started coming here—name’s Greg, by the way.”

“Ah. Yes, I’ve been coming here for a few weeks. I’m . . . Mike,” answered Mycroft. Hesitating to extend his hand to this stranger, he simply nodded and smiled. But in the smile and the curious blue eyes, Greg saw a possibility that sent a small tremor of anticipation along his spine.

For the next few weeks, three or four days each week, they engaged in a little small talk, a few jokes. The blue eyes began to laugh and shine. Greg now spent his daily commute crafting stories to make Mycroft giggle or blush. Mycroft looked forward to those early morning encounters as bright respites in otherwise dark and dreary weeks. Greg's sudden breaches of Mycroft's normally well-guarded personal space were less disconcerting each time. In fact, Mycroft came to crave those fleeting moments far more than he thought he should.

But just when Greg had decided he would like to bridge the distance between them and make a real connection—maybe ask Mike out for coffee or breakfast afterward . . . he was gone. No warning. No explanation.

 

The explanation, had Mycroft chosen to supply it, was simple. Mycroft Holmes did not allow himself to give in to distractions that might remove focus from his own work—both as a (quite, quite minor, of course) representative of the British government and as Sherlock’s keeper. Besides, he no longer needed to leave his home for the physical stimulation he craved.

Mycroft enjoyed the stillness, the softer lighting, and certainly the superior aesthetics of his own gleaming, new lap pool. The water glowed turquoise instead of institutional grey. And he felt more comfortable here than in the health club he had been forced to frequent during the renovation--the place he had met Greg Lestrade. He had chosen that club specifically because no one in his circle would ever show up there, so far from their usual elegant haunts.

He dipped one foot in and shivered, but as soon as he pulled his goggles into place and began slicing through the water, he felt warm and loose, and his anxieties dissolved. Solitude suited him, he assured himself, as he counted out the lengths.

But when he slipped into bed later, skin still sensitive and warm from the shower, he heard it: a gravelly, teasing voice, saying, “Mornin', Mike. Feel like a race today?” And he saw the smile. The one that still drew all the air out of his lungs, just remembering it.

Each night for months thereafter, Mycroft tried to recall the sound of that voice as clearly as he could, while the tips of his fingers skimmed over the damp spot on his pyjamas, and he slowly stroked his erection from base to tip. He imagined Greg’s body wrapped around him in the water. As his fantasies progressed, Greg was lying on top, hips pressing firmly down and moving at a perfect pace, chest lifted just enough so Mycroft could tongue and nibble dark, pebbled nipples.

Kisses hot and desperate with wanting. Greg thrusting against him, then into him. Hanging on so tight his muscles ached and trembled.

Greg’s arms around him.

Still around him.

Still.

 _To be held by someone who doesn't want to let go,_ thought Mycroft. _Yes._

_That would be . . ._ he couldn't put a word to it, for his imagination had reached its limit.

The fingers of Mycroft’s left hand dug into his pillow as he came, burying his face deeply in the softness to muffle his own voice, calling his imaginary lover’s name. Mycroft was ashamed of the weakness this man had brought to the surface. He had time for only tidy, disposable relationships. Not this. Not passion. Not obsession. But he could not bring himself to think of anyone else now, and whispered the name once again, before placing the pillow back beneath his head and welcoming sleep and more dreams.

Mycroft waited one week after ending his trips to the health club—a polite interval, he thought—before sending an agent to find every scrap of information available about this Greg. This policeman. Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft kept his thick file, cryptically labeled _Freestyle,_ in a locked drawer in his bedside table where he could occasionally pull out the photos and year-by-year details of a respectable, but as yet unremarkable life and memorize each one.

And—again, feeling embarrassed by his obsession—he kept one small black and white photo of the man in his briefcase, hidden inside a signed volume of Joseph Brodsky’s verse, marking a poem that reflected one of Mycroft's recurring dreams so precisely that it always made him smile.

_If you were drowning, I’d come to the rescue,_  
 _wrap you in my blanket and pour hot tea._  
 _If I were a sheriff, I’d arrest you_  
 _and keep you in a cell under lock and key._

__  
* * *  


One day, based on his newly acquired knowledge of the Metropolitan Police, Mycroft decided to try something different to keep Sherlock occupied. He arranged a series of "accidental" meetings between his brother and Detective Inspectors Dimmock, Gregson, and Lestrade, knowing that the cases they were working would be irresistible to Sherlock, who would surely preen and pose and show off his deductive brilliance along with many of his less admirable qualities.

Mycroft soon recognized that--as he had suspected--D. I. Lestrade alone had the patience and good humor to deal with Sherlock's peculiarities, and they might form a good working partnership. They did so in short order. Now Mycroft had the great pleasure of keeping watch over Greg--from a proper distance, of course--under the guise of his usual sibling surveillance.

For several months, Mycroft felt no need to intervene further in Sherlock's life or to speak to Lestrade himself; he was happy to observe the pair at work. But early one June morning it became clear in several bits of CCTV footage that Sherlock's addictions had returned with a vengeance, so Mycroft prepared himself for the inevitable ugliness, and made plans to pick up the pieces-- _again_. But before he observed signs that Sherlock had crashed, Mycroft was surprised to see his brother exhibiting a few signs of withdrawal.

In the past, Sherlock had suspended his habits only under duress. The duress usually included abduction by Mycroft's minions and, on occasion, temporary imprisonment in a remote cottage in Wales. Sherlock had an abiding hatred of Wales, so sometimes the mere threat of being exiled there was enough to keep him in line.

Mycroft found it curious that the addict appeared to be trying to break free of the demons on his own now. Or, as it turned out, with a bit of help from a man with a blanket and hot tea.


	2. Distemper

He’d only been playing nursemaid for six hours, and already Lestrade was running on his last ounce of patience. He’d emptied his small reservoir of paternal tenderness—emptied it, in fact, after the first thirty minutes of trying to get the bloody imbecile to swallow some water so he wouldn’t dehydrate. The cramped flat smelled of sweat, vomit, and the vile faux lemon-scented soap he was now using to scrub the bathroom floor and rinse out the bins.

 _Jesus fucking Christ._ Why had he promised the boy he wouldn’t cart him off to hospital? Clearly, they needed a doctor doing a proper assessment of just how bad the withdrawal was going to be. Maybe give him something better than the paracetamol Lestrade had on hand to ease the cramps and fever.

_Stupid junkie. Stupid bloody genius. Just stupid._

Sherlock would surely reach a breaking point soon, thought Lestrade, and he’d call for an ambulance. Then Lestrade could get himself in the shower and rinse away some of the stench of desperation—his own and Sherlock’s.

Despite everything, Lestrade had grown fond of Sherlock these past months as they’d begun working together, but he wouldn’t call this a friendship exactly. He assumed the boy genius didn’t really have friends, as such. How could he? Sherlock didn’t know how to navigate a normal casual conversation. He made pronouncements. Demands. No small talk. No “How’s it going, mate?” or “Lovely spring weather, eh?” Never even, “Good morning, Lestrade.” Just “Haven’t you got anything _new?”_

Before today, all Sherlock cared about was whether Lestrade had a murder or kidnapping on hand that was relatively complex—relatively _amusing_ —plus a few cigarettes and a warrant card he could lift. So why in bloody hell was the D. I. suddenly nurse, nanny, and bleeding dogsbody? He’d have to ask that question if the bastard ever regained his senses.

Having at last moved into a calmer, more mature phase of his life, Lestrade sometimes looked at Sherlock and saw glimpses of his younger self—all kinetic energy and forward movement. Mind engaged in each tiny detail of the work. Attacking every case as if his life depended on it. In fact, Lestrade realized, his life _had_ depended on it back then. Probably Sherlock’s did too.

But from the look and sound of him when he wasn’t crashing, the boy came from money, so it was still a puzzle just how he’d got himself parked in front of the Yard smoking and trading insults with Lestrade half the days of the week. To the copper, who’d not forgotten what it felt like to go hungry on occasion in his teens and to sleep wherever he could find a vacant mattress, rug, or sofa, a careless sense of entitlement like Sherlock’s still grated. And the time and money spent on drugs looked like a fucking pathetic waste— an opinion Lestrade didn’t mind sharing every time the freelance detective showed up with trembling, ice-cold hands and pupils blown three times their normal size.

Yesterday, finally, they had barely avoided a knock-down, drag-out row at the Yard when Lestrade shoved the boy into a corner, fisting the fine fabric of his jacket, and put things as plainly as he could:

"You're a fucking waste of my time like this, Sherlock. Get out and don't come back again."

"You're bluffing—and not that convincingly, by the way.” The look was more bored than defiant. “You need me."

"I need a man I can trust. Right now you're not a man—you’re barely a human being in this condition. And I wouldn't trust you to fetch my lunch, much less solve a crime." That, to Lestrade's surprise, had shut the genius up and sent him damn near running out the door.

He'd arrived unannounced that morning at the D. I.'s flat. Didn't ask for help. Didn't explain. Didn't really need to. Lestrade was well-schooled in the science—and art—of deduction too, after all.

 _Shit._ Lestrade hoisted himself up off the bathroom floor, having washed it down for the third time. His knees cracked and twinged as he stood, reminding him of the downside of maturing. He pushed a towel around with his bare foot to dry the tiles, thinking the only way to make this day worse would be if he slipped and cracked open his head on the side of the toilet.

He walked back to the sitting room to check on the restless, feverish body sprawled along the length of his sofa. Sherlock’s face was still a ruddy pink and dripping sweat, dark curls matted and unwashed, eyes grey, red, and liquid. Lestrade pressed a thermometer between the chapped lips and grazed his knuckles across the soft, barely-there bit of stubble on Sherlock’s chin.

What’s the highest temperature the human body can tolerate before brain damage sets in? The D. I. had known the answer once—had to study it for a first aid exam. Was it 41 or 42 degrees? Sherlock had been bouncing between 39 and 40 all afternoon. Now it was 39.8.

Lestrade went to the kitchen to make a pot of herbal tea, thinking maybe at least the scent might be soothing, even if he couldn’t get any of it down Sherlock’s throat.

“I’m going to leave now, Lestrade!” came the sound of a weak, rasping baritone.

“Sure you are,” Lestrade snorted back, pouring the water over leaves that smelled of spicy ginger and lemon rind.

“I am. This is boring now. Thought I’d try it as an experiment. I don’t like it. I’ll simply control my intake from now on, and everything will be just fine. You’ll never know I’m on anything because you won’t see any signs. I’m perfectly capable of . . .”

Lestrade handed him a mug of tea and said calmly, “You’re not capable of controlling it. And you know that. That’s why you’re here. You need at least four or five days to get through this bit and then we’ll find some sort of support group and rehab situation and also get you checked out by a doctor . . .”

Sherlock held the tea in his hands for a few moments, sniffed it, then placed it on the side table. He seemed to make an effort to gather strength and breath and declared, “Don’t be absurd. Useless chattering about “issues” and “feelings” with strangers who have ordinary, weak little brains? If I’d known you had that in mind, I never would have come here. Now, help me up, you stupid sod, and I’ll be out of your way. No need to . . .”

As soon as Sherlock stood up, Lestrade stepped forward and pushed him angrily back onto the sofa, so that the young man grazed his temple on the sharp corner of a side table. It didn’t occur to Lestrade to apologize for that; he thought it was a justified show of force, and Sherlock seemed to agree, since he wasn’t complaining. Instead the boy rubbed his head and half-leered at Lestrade.

“You bastard. You’ve always wanted to rough me up, haven’t you?”

Sherlock leaned back into the cushions and spread his legs, letting one hand cup his testicles through the thin fabric of the pyjamas on loan from Lestrade, while the other hand moved from tracing the slight abrasion at his temple to tracing the line of his collarbone, exposed just above the stretched-out neck of his white t-shirt.

Lestrade shook his head, mumbled a few curses, and lifted both Sherlock’s legs onto the sofa, covering his whole body with two blankets, tucked in tightly all around. This was typical junkie behavior, he reminded himself. Argument, insults, aggression, seduction, anything to get out the door and back on the street for a fix.  
And it wasn’t news to Lestrade that Sherlock had sensed the copper’s infatuation. The boy used it to his advantage at times, but Lestrade had sworn he would never act on it or even acknowledge it. He’d been fool enough to get involved with a much younger man once and found that the thrill of the ride wasn’t really worth the price of the ticket. He didn’t want to be teacher or father substitute. He needed something more balanced than that. And he certainly wasn’t going to get involved with a posh, drug-addled little prick like this. Yet the temptation was always there—smirking, teasing, testing.

When high or sober—didn’t matter which—Sherlock liked to play games that involved testing Lestrade’s patience. And Lestrade usually didn’t mind playing along: setting the rules and trying (in vain) to punish Sherlock when he broke them. With the exception of yesterday's encounter, Sherlock usually laughed when Lestrade put on a low, menacing voice and tried a bit of bullying:

“You lift my warrant card one more time, and you’ll be in the cells on bread and water for three weeks.”

Yeah, bluffing never worked with Sherlock. Some day Lestrade thought, he’d try a full-on bit of theatrics, complete with Donovan and a few other officers—maybe search the boy’s flat or bring him into an interrogation room and scare him properly. But for now they both enjoyed the sharp, loud, staccato rhythm of questions and answers. The give and take, thrust and parry, that sometimes felt . . . well, something akin to erotic, Lestrade had to admit. Lestrade played hard-to-get: a plodding, grumpy obstacle—refusing to recognize Sherlock’s lightening-quick turns of argument, forcing the boy to repeat himself and revise the narrative to make it clearer, more precise.

“Stop the speculation about his taste in music, Sherlock. You’re just showing off now. What’s the _real_ motive here? How’re we going to catch this guy?”

Lestrade watched Sherlock stomp and dance across the floor, waving his arms in exasperation. All the while, the D. I. struggled mightily to keep the grin off his own face and more often than not, struggled to ignore the elegant twist of Sherlock’s waist, the long neck, the full lips . . .

Now looking at the not-so-pretty version of the genius huddled on the sofa, the D. I. wondered if he could bully or taunt his patient into going to hospital. Probably not. At some point, he might need to carry Sherlock out the door against his will, but for now Lestrade pulled a chair up close to the sofa and sat down to watch and wait, listening for signs of distress in the boy’s breathing or movements.

 _Hmpf._ All those games and bits of theater and fantasy with Sherlock were what passed for fun in his life lately, thought Lestrade as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. _Now who’s the pathetic one?_

An hour later, Lestrade awoke to find long, thin fingers wrapped around his knee, and Sherlock’s warm, wet cheek resting on his thigh. He was shivering and mumbling incoherently again.

Lestrade roused himself and picked up a rumpled black raincoat from the floor next to his feet and started going through Sherlock’s pockets—should have done that hours ago—trying to figure out both what he was on and whether there were any clues to flatmates or relatives who could be called in for help.

The D. I. had no idea what shit the boy was withdrawing from—not just heroin, apparently, as he'd assumed. There was some weird mixture of pills too. Lestrade didn’t even recognize the six crumbling white pills he pulled from the boy’s pockets—and he thought he knew everything, after the four years he’d worked drugs busts. The stuff looked homemade. Could be anything.

 _Fuck._ He sat staring at Sherlock, trying to decide what to do with the skeletal young man who was now coughing convulsively and-- _wonderful_ \--throwing up on the carpet again.

 _Right. Enough._ Time to break that promise. Lestrade disentangled himself, stood, picked up his mobile, and started to call for an ambulance.

A moment later, the door of the flat swung open and the phone was removed from Lestrade’s hand by a short, sturdy bald bloke in jeans and a brown leather jacket. A tall, slim, impeccably dressed tosser brandishing an umbrella and a smug smile glided in behind Baldy.

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I hope I may be of some assistance.”


	3. Dysphoria

When he heard a gravelly, vaguely familiar voice, Sherlock willed his eyes to open, despite their clear preference to stay closed for at least the next month.

_Where am I? Oh yes, came to Lestrade’s flat to . . . to what? To sleep? To be annoyed?_

“Ah, you’re finally awake. Here, try some of this. Ginger ale. Friend of mine swears by it. Sit up and hold it with both hands, for Christ’s sake.”

Sherlock could not fully focus his eyes, and he could not seem to say anything much above a whisper. He wanted to explain to Lestrade that he didn’t care for ginger ale; he preferred tea. “Mummy lets me have tea with milk and cinnamon biscuits if I finish all my geometry and Latin in the morning. I don’t like to make tea. Tastes better when someone else makes it. Mummy or Adele or Mycroft. Mycroft used to make me tea, then he went away to school. He makes the best tea and he stacks the biscuits up so they look like pyramids. I’ve never been to Egypt. Mycroft went to Egypt with Mummy and Father, but they wouldn’t let me go. He brought me books about sarcophagi and mummification and I said he was a selfish dick because I told him I wanted a real sarcophagus and a real mummy to examine, and he claimed that was impossible. But of course it’s not impossible—he can get whatever he wants, whenever he wants. He’s just trying to thwart my investigations. He’s jealous of me, don’t you think? I’m cleverer and eventually I intend to be taller too.”

“I have no idea what you’re going on about, Sherlock. Just drink this and then get into the bathroom. You’re looking green again. Who the hell is Mycroft? Oh, bloody hell—you’re about to do it again, aren’t you?”

* * * * *

“Lestrade! You’ve no proper pens in this flat? I need a pen. A simple pen. And can’t you turn down the heat? I feel like a Christmas goose broiling in the oven.”

An answer came faintly from another room. “The heat’s not on, Sherlock, it’s your fever. Now stop wandering about and lie down on the sofa, please. I don’t want you falling over things. We don’t need bruises and broken bones to add to this bloody drama.”

 _Lestrade is his usual thick-headed, bossy self. The man is insufferable most of the time. Never able to follow a simple line of argument. All that glaring and frowning and huffing and puffing. The folding of arms and scratching of his head. Drama queen. It’s hardly worth the time to deal with him. I should throw him out of this flat so I can get on with my work. If only this weren’t_ his _flat._

_Logically, there should be a pen in this kitchen drawer by the phone . . . yes! Now . . . clock, clock . . . must record the time: 12:32. 12:32. 22:31. 23:21. Good. Good. Best to write it more than once. Looks better that way. More emphatic._

With damp, trembling hands, Sherlock opened the black notebook and scratched a few numbers. Then a few phrases. _Experiment continues effectively. Subject’s superior brain and body functions will make short work of physical and psychological symptoms of opiate withdrawal. All bodily functions should normalize within 24 hours??_

He closed the notebook and walked back to the sitting room, suddenly not sure what to do next; forgetting again, for a terrifying moment, just where he was. He began to finger some dark wooden frames on a small table near the doorway. _What are these photographs? That’s Lestrade. Yes. Good. I must be in Lestrade’s tasteless, boring flat. Or is it a boy who looks like Lestrade? Lestrade and other people. Family? Never imagined him having a family. Or friends. Too dull to have many friends. And that’s his mother? Pleasant face. Hideous hat. Wonder if he’ll look good when his hair goes all the way grey too? Wonder how he’d look in a hat like that? (giggle) Two brothers, one sister, all younger._

_Must have been having an intimate relationship with that motorbike. Leathers. How ridiculous. What’s this? A wife? Girlfriend? Probably broke her heart when he came out, though she pretends to be on friendly terms still, judging from the more recent photograph. No boyfriends? Thought he had a few. Must keep those in the bedroom. Must go and have a look._

“Sherlock, I thought I told you to lie down. Get the hell out of my bedroom. Look at you, you’re sweating and shaking—you need a blanket.”

“I do not need a blanket. I’m not a child.”

“Humour me. Here. And when you feel like vomiting again, try to use this bin. And I know they won’t stay down, but take a couple of these to see if they help for the fever.”

“I have no intention of surrendering to the nausea again. That was a one-time weakness. I have it under control now. I need some distraction while this thing runs its course. Where do you keep your books on organic chemistry?”

Sherlock stared at Lestrade for a moment, while Lestrade stared back, refusing to answer.

_He doesn’t have any chemistry books, obviously. No natural curiosity. Too lazy._

“Get back to the sofa and lie down, you bloody idiot. I’m going to look for one more blanket.” _If he thinks I’m going to lounge on that lumpy sofa for the rest of the day, he’s off his head. I’ll find something on this bookshelf. Fleming. Ludlum. LeCarre. Dull. Tedious. Dull._ Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance . . . _Ha! Bought that one by mistake, did he? Didn’t read past page five, obviously. Auden. Inscribed with sentimental rubbish. Waste of paper._ Crime and Punishment— _probably bought that one by mistake too. Title sounds like a criminology textbook. Except he obviously read the whole thing—more than once. Wretched, overwrought, pretentious Doestoevsky. He and Mycroft would hit it off. Must make sure they never meet._

_Nothing but useless drivel here. How did he rise to D.I. when he clearly has no microscope, no chemistry books, no anatomy, no legal history, no soil ecology?_

Sherlock suddenly felt quite dizzy and sank with a thud onto the carpet.

 _Ah. More comfortable on the floor. Just need to lie down one moment. Need to find my notebook. Nausea approaching again. Clock? Clock? Why does the clock keep moving? Notebook. Notebook. There’s the clock. Time: 2:222222. Must record symptoms. It’s not really vomit anymore, is it? Just almost colourless something—stomach juices? Juices. That’s a ridiculous word. Where does it come from? Juice. Not Jews. Juice. Juicy._

"Lestrade, where’s your OED—the multi-volume set? Don’t tell me you don’t have that either? You’re the most useless man I’ve ever met. Why is my shirt wet? Did we go swimming? I feel as if I’ve been swimming. I smell chlorine. You don’t look wet, Lestrade. Did you just throw me into the pool and leave? You bastard. You know I can’t swim. Mycroft can swim. I can’t swim, but I can do everything else better than he can. And I’m not a fat prat.”

“Can you please stop talking about Mycroft, whoever that is, and let me see about your temperature again?”

_I need my notebook. I need to write things down. I can’t see clearly—am I still in the pool? My head is exploding, I think. I’m going to write that down: Head has exploded. Observing results. Is this what a stroke is like?_

“There seems to be a sharp object twisting my lower intestine into knots. Can you see it, Lestrade? Feels like I’m being stabbed. Attacked. I need . . . I need to write that in my notebook. What time is it?”

“There’s nothing there, Sherlock. I’m here and no one’s attacking you. It’s almost three o’clock. Try to keep your eyes closed. You need to sleep.”

* * * * *

“Lestrade! Stop dragging me. I can walk. No, wait. It seems I can’t. You’re thinking you want to smother me with a pillow, aren’t you?”

“As matter of fact, I am. Did I not just give you a bloody bin?”

“You’re funny. And your face is red. Normally you’re mildly attractive—but not so much right now. Take my temperature again. I need to record it. Why do you smell so hideous? What is that?”

“Get in the damn loo and stay there for the next twenty minutes, and I’ll take your temperature and bring your notebook. Do not leave.”

_Phhhffftt. I like the bathroom. I’ll stay here because I want to, not because he told me to. Cooler here. I’ll sleep in the tub. One, two, three . . . . thirty-eight, fifty-two, fifty-two, fifty-two . . ._

“You have eighty thousand ceramic tiles in your bathroom, Lestrade. I think that’s excessive. It’s positively baroque. You’re disgusting. Did you make tea?”

“Come on. Let’s clean you up and get you into these fresh pyjamas. You’re soaked to the skin.”

“You smell terrible.”

“That’s not me, mate.”

“Why am I naked and you’re not? What are you up to, Inspector? I don’t like to bother with sex as a rule, but . . .”

“Shut up, Sherlock. Get this t-shirt on now. Take this flannel and try to clean your face. Then go back to the sofa and sit quietly.”

* * * * *

_He’s making tea. I smell it. I like tea. Lestrade likes coffee. Loves coffee. But I like tea. I’m just going to sit down here for one more minute while I wait for the tea. One minute. And then I will go to the British Library for chemistry books. I’ll take a taxi because it’s too hot to fly._

* * * * *

_What time is it? Where is my notebook? My God, I’m so tired. And there’s a knife in my abdomen, isn’t there? Enough! Enough of this experiment. I just need a small hit, just a little something to get me through the evening._

“I’m going to leave now, Lestrade!”

“Sure you are.”

“I am! This is boring now. Thought I’d try it as an experiment. I don’t like it. I’ll simply control my intake from now on, measure carefully, and everything will be just fine. You’ll never know I’m on anything because you won’t see any signs. I’m perfectly capable of . . .”

Sherlock held the hot mug of liquid Lestrade had given him in both his hands, sniffing. Then placed it on the side table.

_That tea smells strange. It isn’t tea. It’s some slow-working poison he’s administering to keep me here. It’s taking away my ability to reason—and breathe properly. What’s he yammering on about? Support group? Doctors? He can’t be serious._

“Don’t be absurd. Useless chattering about “issues” and “feelings” with strangers who have ordinary, weak little brains? If I’d known you had that in mind, I never would have come here. Now, help me up, you stupid sod, and I’ll be out of your way. No need to . . .”

Lestrade’s strong, rough hands gripped Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed him backwards so that he fell sprawled half on, half off the sofa and his head banged hard against the side table.

_Ow! Dammit! Why is he manhandling me? Of course—why didn’t I see it? He’s poisoning me so he can fuck me. He’s always wanted it. Fine. If that will release me from this hideous prison . . ._

* * * * *

Sherlock woke to find himself coughing and vomiting clear, thin mucus onto Lestrade’s bare foot, and clutching the D. I.’s leg in an effort to stop himself from shaking.

Lestrade tore himself away from the young man’s grip and then Sherlock heard the tap, tap, tap of fingers on the keys of a mobile. He opened his eyes, then shut them again to still the spinning room.

He heard the door open. Surely it was only hallucination that brought the sound of his brother’s reedy, condescending voice to his ears. Surely it wasn’t really his arch enemy come to call.

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I hope I may be of some assistance.”

_Oh god. I didn’t merely have a stroke. I died. And now I am in hell._


	4. Inflammation

Mycroft stood in the guest room where Sherlock was tossing and muttering in fevered dreams. He looked out the window to the garden below where the day lilies—mostly fiery orange tiger lilies now—were drooping and fading. He felt weary, drained of his usual reserves of “keep calm and carry on” fortitude. He was—although loathe to admit it—quite angry at his brother. So brilliant, so beautiful, always the favourite—but ever ungrateful, wasting it all.

He stepped back from the window a bit, huddling behind the curtain when he saw Lestrade come into view, wandering through the pebbled paths. Desperate for another cigarette? Or just looking for an excuse to get out of the house and away from the Holmeses? Probably both, thought Mycroft.

Watching Lestrade strolling about, clearly enjoying the waning afternoon sun on his face, lifted Mycroft’s spirits a little. Having this help, a sturdy support to lean on while dealing with Sherlock, was a wonder to Mycroft, who was so accustomed to being the sole support of Sherlock, Mummy, and at times the EU and the entire Free World as well. Mycroft was the man who fixed things for other people, who kept the gears of the world oiled and in motion. Yet he had never come as close to fixing Sherlock as had Greg Lestrade.

Perhaps, thought Mycroft, he should have allowed Sherlock to stay with Lestrade, should have left them alone to sort it out. But it didn’t feel right somehow. This was a Holmes family problem—Mycroft needed to be a part of solving it.

 _Too bad Lestrade couldn’t care less about me,_ thought Mycroft with a frown of resignation, spirit drooping like the lilies. He watched the detective gazing into the koi pond, then turned away from the window to adjust the blankets on Sherlock’s bed, grateful that his brother seemed to be sleeping after all the fuss of getting him into the car and then wrestling him into the house. He picked up the water carafe and took it downstairs to the kitchen for a refill.

Mycroft found it more than frustrating—it was a significant personal failure—that he remained besotted by the man he had met almost a year earlier at a nondescript health club. And _besotted_ was simply an inadequate, shorthand way of describing the combination of admiration, friendship, giddy infatuation, and lust Mycroft felt when he looked at Greg Lestrade.  All of it was so very distressing and inconvenient now that they were going to be spending so much time in such close proximity. Lestrade had just taken leave from his work for four days. He said that was the minimum amount of time before Sherlock was at least sober enough have a real conversation about the next step—the more difficult (perhaps impossible, thought Mycroft) task of staying clean.

Shortly after he had arrived at the D.I.’s flat to take charge of Sherlock, Mycroft reasoned that it was a very good thing his face and form apparently weren't recognized by Lestrade—although that was rather surprising for a professional detective. Of course, the man was exhausted when Mycroft and his driver Carlos had arrived at the flat. And Mycroft had sported much shorter hair and a beard--and blue swimming goggles--when they’d first met. And he supposed he looked entirely different fully clothed. Perhaps it wasn't so surprising.

* * *

Mycroft originally had intended to make quick work of this kidnapping of his brother. He thought he would have Carlos carry Sherlock to the car if necessary, thank the D.I. for all his help and then make a swift exit, taking Sherlock to the spacious London house where he’d managed several of his brother’s other unsuccessful detox episodes. But then Lestrade had insisted on coming along. And more distressing, Sherlock had insisted too.

"I assure you, Inspector . . . " Mycroft had protested sweetly.

"It's Detective Inspector, in fact, but you can call me Greg. Given the circumstances, I think we can all be on a first-name basis, eh?"

"Yes, certainly. Thank you . . . _Gregory_. I am indebted to you for your kind assistance so far, but now I believe this a family matter, and I will take Sherlock into my care. You needn't bother accompanying us. You should get some rest and return to your normal life."

Sherlock had roused himself, sitting up on the sofa, glaring at Mycroft. "He will come or I won't go with you. I need Lestrade to keep my mind busy, to discuss cases with me, go over evidence. We've only just started a splendid murder-suicide last week, and I can't possibly stop in the middle. Besides I can't bear to be in that house alone with you."

"Sherlock," Lestrade had interrupted, "You've gotta be daft if you think you're in any condition to work . . . "

"Even half-awake and dysphoric, I'm more useful than half the imbeciles on your team, and you know it. It's the only reason I'm enduring this nonsense. I need to work, you stupid sod, or I might as well . . ."

Mycroft and Greg had looked at each other, hearing the tone of desperation beneath Sherlock's anger. Mycroft had nodded, then pointed his umbrella at Sherlock. "Very well. But I won't have a scene of chaos like this in my home. Please attempt to clean yourself up and put on some decent clothes, and _shoes_ , before we leave."

Sherlock had rolled his eyes, stood up shakily and pulled his raincoat over his stained t-shirt and pyjamas. Pulling his notebook and pen from between the cushions of the sofa, he had announced, "Ready!”

 

* * *

 

In the first day of getting Sherlock into his right mind and through the continuing fevers, chills, and nausea, Mycroft and Lestrade worked together almost silently much of the time. Lestrade bristled and offered frequent resistance and one or two profane replies to Mycroft’s precise, often condescending orders. This resistance unnerved Mycroft—and occasionally, dear heaven, aroused him. He wasn’t used to being questioned or disobeyed, and it was . . . interesting.

The two men barely spoke a dozen words to each other in the first eight hours at Mycroft’s home, but eventually got into a predictable rhythm, walking Sherlock around the garden when he was coherent and able, changing his clothes when necessary, encouraging him to eat and drink, switching the television and radio on and off repeatedly when distraction was needed and then resented and then demanded again. Lestrade tidied and scooped up soiled laundry to make the housekeeper’s burden easier. Mycroft insisted this was a ridiculous waste of time. Mycroft prepared many slices of buttered toast, Sherlock’s only food request, and searched stubbornly through cookbooks for soup and pudding recipes to tempt his gaunt, recalcitrant brother.

Sherlock was frequently abusive--primarily towards Mycroft, although Lestrade, Carlos, and Mrs Stubbs, the housekeeper, were all treated to colourful insults.

Late in the afternoon, Greg and Mycroft sat together in the small library for a brief rest. Mycroft had just finished calling local physicians for recommendations regarding rehabilitation facilities while Lestrade looked up various remedies for fever and nausea online. By this time, Mycroft barely frowned when Greg put his feet up on the silk ottoman and balanced a plate of cinnamon biscuits on his belly while they sipped their tea.

Sherlock stomped into the library, seized a hefty, illustrated volume of _The Iliad_ and hurled it at a vase, smashing it to bits, then glared at Mycroft. Mycroft reacted with studied calm as always, picking up the largest shards of glass, and asking quietly, "Why is it your aim to destroy everything--to destroy yourself and everyone around you?"

Sherlock shrugged and walked upstairs to the bedroom where he fell into another fitful sleep.

Lestrade took the first night shift with Sherlock, but neither he nor Mycroft slept more than a couple of hours. When Mycroft roused him out of the chair next to Sherlock’s bed the next morning Greg was clearly exhausted and out of sorts.

“Jesus Christ, you can’t afford a more comfortable chair, Mycroft? Fuck. My back is killing me.”

Mycroft smiled benevolently and made a note to replace the chair by nightfall, suggesting, “Why don’t you have a long, hot shower and perhaps that will relieve some of the discomfort? I’ll have breakfast ready when you’re done.”

Greg wandered into the kitchen after showering and watched Mycroft fussing over toast, cheese omelets, and coffee. Mycroft watched the detective circle the kitchen, opening cupboards, reading the labels of spices and cans of beans, touching cups and ladles and cutting boards. Looking for clues to God-knows-what.

When Sherlock came downstairs to slouch bonelessly at the kitchen table, Greg placed a blanket snugly around the young man's shoulders, stroking his back. Greg then cupped Sherlock’s hand to place two pills there, pushing them gently towards his lips.

Mycroft hadn’t touched Sherlock since—well, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched his brother. He tossed blankets at him and set pills and glasses of water nearby. Lestrade often placed his palm on Sherlock’s forehead or neck to gauge the fever, but Mycroft always handed his brother a thermometer and walked away. Mycroft felt a warm flush of embarassment watching these intimate gestures between the D.I. and Sherlock, and a hollowness--deep and long neglected--inside himself.

Mycroft saw Lestrade pat Mrs. Stubbs on the arm and inquire about her cat ( _She keeps a cat?_ ) before stepping outside for a handshake, a smoke, and a chat with Carlos, who was changing the oil in Mycroft’s car. After about ten minutes he strolled back into the kitchen.

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“He’s gone to lie down in the library. He found a nineteenth-century treatise on Sussex geology there and wants to study it. He ate a bite of toast and raspberry jam and drank some water, so I think that’s all we can ask for at this point. We’ll hope that stays in his stomach for awhile at least.”

“So what do we have here, Mycroft? Coffee smells fantastic. Shall I pour us each a cup?”

He brushed against Mycroft’s back while walking around to get the coffee and cups, then stood close behind, watching over Mycroft's shoulder as he tended the omelets. Mycroft found he was dizzy from the aroma of soap and shampoo and Gregory Lestrade filling his nostrils. He felt himself swaying backward, then felt the D. I.’s fingers curving around his shoulder, squeezing in a gesture of casual familiarity—something with which Mycroft was thoroughly unfamiliar.

“Hope you’re okay this morning, Mycroft? Just wanted to say I think you’re holding up amazingly well with all this. Dunno if I’d be doing as well if it was one of my brothers.”

Mycroft looked over his shoulder to see the brown eyes he’d imagined so many times looking at him with concern and encouragement and it very nearly broke him apart. He paused, wooden spoon in mid-air, trying to gather his wits.

Mycroft thought he’d like to pat Greg’s arm or---what did people do? Hug? He wanted to reciprocate and say something warm and grateful, but . . . he really didn’t know what he could manage. Already he could feel a little well of tears forming in each eye, and . . . 

He banged his spoon loudly on side of the pan and turned off the stove, saying cheerily, “I hope you’re hungry, Greg. Please do sit down and I’ll bring this right over. Mrs. Stubbs brought a few strawberries this morning, a nice garnish for the plate, if you’d like.”

 

After breakfast and small talk about Carlos’s family in Spain, the need for more rain for the garden, and why egg-white-only omelets were an abomination and might well herald the decline of Western Civilization, Mycroft rose to clear the table. Greg stopped him, placing a hand lightly on his wrist.

“Mycroft, let’s sit for just a little while, if you don’t mind? You must be as exhausted as I am—I don't think we're ready to tangle with that plonker in the library yet. Let’s just sit and do nothing for ten minutes—I’ll watch the clock—and then we can get up and get on with it, eh?”

Mycroft set the plates back onto the table and nodded toward the sitting room.  The two men positioned themselves awkwardly on the sofa—or at least Mycroft felt awkward—trying to strike a balance on the long leather Chesterfield between too close and too far.

 

When they woke up two hours later Mycroft was leaning heavily into Greg’s shoulder, in a position someone who didn’t know better might call “cuddling.” And one of Greg’s hands had fallen onto Mycroft’s thigh, dangerously close to fondling the bureaucrat's groin.

Mycroft could feel Greg’s breath on his face and both their hearts beating rapidly. He curled his body slowly away from Lestrade’s. Dizzy. Fearful. Desperate.

Greg stirred and blushed, smiled at Mycroft, stretched, and then looked at his watch. “Oh Christ," he laughed, "It’s almost ten! That was stupid, wasn’t it?”

Mycroft said nothing. He tried to steer away from Greg for most of the rest of the day and was fairly successful—letting the D.I. handle most of the direct contact with Sherlock, while Mycroft attended to his own government work in his private study.

After taking his dinner alone, still walled up in his study, Mycroft walked into the back garden to catch his breath and look at the sunset.

Lestrade followed.


	5. Tonic

“So. . . .your brother. How long has it been like this?”

“About ten years now—since he was seventeen. But it’s been much worse for the past two or three years. He really can’t cope with . . . well, he calls it boredom, but it’s more complicated than that.”

“I’ve seen the boredom. Really doesn’t handle it well, does he?” Greg smiled in sympathy.

He and Mycroft were standing on the small stone terrace watching a red summer sun drop behind the trees and surrounding rooftops. “So what’s the rest of it?”

“I think it’s very much about his brilliance, of course, and the fact that he can’t still his mind—can’t calm it. But . . . for want of a better word, I also think it’s loneliness. His mind, and his peculiar history—they have isolated him from other people. I believe the drugs help him cope with his lack of suitable companions, lack of friends.”

They walked together around the pond and into the tiny gazebo, standing for awhile in silence, as the sky gave up its wash of red and gold in favor of purple and gray.

Greg shifted slightly closer to Mycroft, conscious that the temperature had dropped a few degrees and wishing he’d brought his jacket. “So, when did this thing between you two start, if you don’t mind my asking? Feels like a bloody war zone.”

“Yes.”

Greg pressed on, feeling the interrogator’s need to pull a complete backstory from his subject. “It’s not all bad, actually. Makes him seem more human. We can all relate to sibling rivalry. But this is on a massive scale, isn’t it? Like Cain and Abel.”

Mycroft smiled, his face more relaxed now, and Greg saw something familiar, confirming what the D.I. had been pretty damn sure of ever since he'd seen the tall, dark figure in the doorway of his flat.

Mycroft continued, “Father used to say, “Now girls, stop arguing! And then he’d call us Kate and Bianca, which always infuriated Sherlock.”

Greg squinted at Mycroft and cocked his head, trying to make out whether there was some obscure connection between Kate Hepburn and Bianca Jagger he should understand.

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively, and laughed. “Oh, never mind--just a silly reference to "Taming of the Shrew"—a couple of battling sisters. There was a musical version, you might know . . .”

Before Mycroft could explain further, Greg interrupted, “Oh right! "Kiss Me Kate"—Liz Taylor. My Mum loved that! But don’t tell me Sherlock was the only one with his knickers in a twist over your Dad’s teasing. You didn't put up a fuss?”

Mycroft smoothed his waistcoat with a flourish and grinned slyly, “Fuss? My dear Inspector, in the play, Kate is clever, articulate, and ends up in bed with a handsome Italian—I hardly aspire to more than that.”

Greg blinked. Mycroft bloody Holmes wasn't flirting, was he? And now he was blushing, which made it all the more endearing. Greg suddenly felt a familiar twitch and a tickle up his spine, but Mycroft had already turned away and begun walking down the stepped path towards the house.

D. I. Lestrade had no intention of letting his interrogation be cut off so abruptly, so he followed his suspect and made a suggestion. “Mycroft, wait. Can’t we stay outside for just a few more minutes? I think the fresh air is doing us both good.” He motioned to a teak bench nearby.

With a slight hesitation Mycroft sat down, pulling his tall frame as far to one corner as possible, while Greg deposited himself in the middle, draping one arm over the back so that his hand lightly grazed Mycroft’s shoulder whenever either of them shifted as they talked.

Greg continued his earlier line of questioning. “Joking aside, why are you and Sherlock so at odds?”

Mycroft brushed a bit of imaginary dirt from his trousers. Finally, he spoke, “I think perhaps he believes I abandoned him at several crucial moments. And he’s correct. Although, I suppose in my defense I would say I had little choice but to do as I was told. I went off to boarding school when Sherlock was six, and he was alone with our parents and his tutors much of the time from that point onward.”

“Were your parents abusive?”

“Heavens no. Quite the opposite. Overindulgent, if anything. But they kept him in a protective bubble until he was about thirteen or fourteen, didn’t allow him to go out in the everyday world and experience it. No friends, no television, no pop music. They knew he was special, and treated him like a hothouse orchid, not realizing that it might harm his ability to flourish outside in the elements.”

“But they didn’t lock you up in the hothouse?”

“No, I don’t think it occurred to them that my intellectual gifts were so special. I attended a village school for a few years, visited my friends’ homes. Secretly watched Dr. Who and read comic books. I even played a bit of football on occasion,”

Mycroft grinned sheepishly and glanced at Greg, adding, “Of course I was dreadful! Never scored a single goal.”

Greg tried not to look shocked by these revelations, tried not to imagine what a sweaty kick-about with Mycroft might be like. “For Sherlock, childhood was only books and tutors and chemistry experiments in the attic. He never really learned how to talk to “ordinary” people. And . . . I suppose I feel rather guilty because I did learn. And I’ve found a way to make my own peculiar gifts useful in the world.”

Greg nodded and grinned. “That’s an understatement, from what I gather. But Sherlock did eventually go off to school, didn’t he? And to university? He never made any friends there?”

“No long-term friends, I’m afraid—I think there were one or two promising alliances, but . . . he began experimenting with drugs, and . . . I think you know the results.”

Greg watched the man’s face darken as the evening shadows closed in around them, but didn’t speak, waiting patiently as Mycroft struggled to choose the right words.

“You should probably know . . . that Sherlock also . . . He blames me for his addictions. And . . . I’m afraid that’s a fair claim. He began visiting me for long holidays in London when he was sixteen and I was twenty-three, just beginning my career . . . and my first . . . romantic relationships.” Mycroft was blushing again, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, and looking into the middle distance, keeping well clear of eye contact with Greg.

“For Sherlock it was a chance to break free of our parents and exercise his independence. They assumed I’d watch over him, protect him, but . . . I’m ashamed to say I couldn’t be bothered. I had my own life and interests, so I ignored him most of the time, and he fell in with a dangerous lot and from there became well-acquainted with every layer of London’s drug culture. By the time I realized what he was doing . . . well, it was far too late.”

Without thinking, Greg put his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and pulled him close, muttering whatever words of consolation came immediately to mind. “I'm sorry, Mycroft. That’s bloody tragic. But of course, it's not your fault. It’s just . . . some people can’t resist, you know? It’s a fucking siren song and . . . well, it’s just nobody’s fault. And we’re going about getting him clean for good this time, so that’s all that matters now.”

There was something seductive in the smell of nervous sweat mixed with butter and strawberries and maybe even some expensive cologne evaporating into the air around Mycroft Holmes. Greg knew this man, knew his laugh, his graceful movements, the buoyant limbs, the gentle curve of his cheek. This wasn't Sherlock's brother. This was the stranger who had disappeared before he became a friend.

Greg’s pulse quickened as he extended an index finger and slid it between the top two buttons of Mycroft’s waistcoat, tugging gently. When Mycroft turned to look into his eyes, Greg licked his lips, then pressed a kiss between Mycroft’s pink ear and cream-coloured collar. When he heard a sharp, shallow intake of breath—but felt no resistance, he closed his eyes and kissed the man’s soft, thin lips.

Mycroft’s long fingers fluttered at Greg’s shoulders, then flew around his neck, tugging at his hair and pulling him even closer. Greg brushed a thumb over Mycroft’s flushed cheek, caressed his throat and shoulder. He felt the pounding of his heart—both their hearts—even through too many damn layers of wool and cotton. Greg stiffened and throbbed as he pressed harder against Mycroft’s body. God, he wanted to feel a response, wanted to feel Mycroft yielding beneath him. Had wanted this for so long . . .

As if reading the copper’s thoughts, Mycroft shifted his hips toward Greg’s, and half-whispered, half-groaned his name. Greg chased and sucked at Mycroft’s tongue to draw out a moan. He felt Mycroft’s slim thighs trembling, heart beating even faster now. But just as Greg was laughing and starting to unbutton the wretched waistcoat, adjusting his position to ease the tightness in his trousers, there was a shout and the sound of breaking glass.

Sherlock’s voice rang out clearly from a second-floor window. “Stop it! Stop, you bastard! What do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock was raging, and Greg knew immediately that he’d done something he shouldn’t have. Of course, Sherlock would feel betrayed or abandoned if he saw Greg and his brother snogging away like that, ignoring all Sherlock’s sufferings.

When he looked at Mycroft, Greg saw a face hidden by two pale hands, and a body shuddering as if a winter wind had just blown through.


	6. Crisis

Sherlock wandered into Mycroft’s bedroom in search of a new pen. His had run dry, scribbling notes about geology and his own—now much improved, thank you very much--physical symptoms.

He pulled open the drawers of the writing desk but found only the long red pencils Mycroft used to edit documents. He scanned a bookshelf, randomly rifled through drawers of socks and underwear, then moved over to a locked bedside table. Grinning gleefully, he located a letter-opener and used it to pick the lock.

_The old pervert. I wonder what strange stuff he has stowed in here? Japanese sex toys? Weimar pornography? God, he’s so dull he probably gets off on pictures of prats playing cricket._

Sherlock felt a new wave of nausea rising in his throat, but swallowed it down as he pulled out a fat file and a book of poetry. Spilling out of the file and the book were photos of Greg Lestrade—a few official Met photos, a few from the press, but mostly candid recent shots, obviously taken from a distance, perhaps stills from CCTV footage. And the papers in the file—they were detailed records of Lestrade’s life and career--birth certificates, school records, Met commendations--all meticulously organized, thorough, as if Mycroft had been investigating him for months.

_The fucking bastard. He’s been interfering, manipulating. . . he’s trying to control everything in my life again. He’s trying to recruit Lestrade—my Lestrade—to turn on me, inform on me._

Sherlock was shaking with rage and pacing the room, trying to piece together his brother’s motives—all sinister, no doubt—when he looked out the window and saw the two men in the garden below, sitting close together, talking, then embracing, and . . . Now the depth of his brother's betrayal was entirely clear.

Sherlock picked up one of Mycroft’s crystal paperweights and hurled it through the window, screaming, “Stop it! Stop, you bastard! What do you think you’re doing?”

 

* * *

The next few hours were among the most taxing of Sherlock’s life—and he suspected and hoped—of Mycroft’s.

Mycroft immediately reverted to his usual obnoxious, cool reserve and insisted that Lestrade leave the house so that he and Sherlock could sort out their problems alone. That was fine with Sherlock since he had plenty to say to Mycroft and didn’t want to be distracted by Lestrade’s inane chattering. Clearly Mycroft was no longer a simple annoyance, but was now a completely untrustworthy, lying turncoat who would do anything—including seducing his brother’s _only_ _friend_ —in order to control and dominate. Well, that was bloody well going to end right now.

Lestrade protested being tossed out of the house, of course, and tried his own typically stupid peacemaking tactics. Kept trying to “reason” with Mycroft. Predictable. So very tedious.

Finally, just after midnight, Lestrade climbed into the long black car, a look of exhaustion and his usual cluelessness in his yes. Carlos drove the D. I. back to his own flat, and Mycroft closed and locked the front door.

After two hours of shouting (primarily Sherlock’s) and silence (primarily Mycroft’s), Sherlock and Mycroft reached an accord. Mycroft insisted on writing down the terms so they could both sign the document.

“So, we are agreed,” said Mycroft, “I will never again speak to or see Lestrade. I will remain at a respectful distance from you at all times unless there is a criminal case involved. The one exception to this is, of course, Christmas with Mummy. And I may use your services as consulting detective as a paying client, if needed.”

In exchange, Sherlock gave up the only negotiating chip he had—and the one thing in the world he knew Mycroft wanted more than, apparently, a sleazy little shag with Lestrade: Sherlock agreed to go to a rehabilitation center for six months of intensive therapy and pledged to stay clean for the foreseeable future.

Dated: June 10, 2005.

Signed in triplicate.


	7. Chronic Pain

At four a.m., Mycroft showered and put on a fresh dressing gown and then checked that Sherlock was sleeping soundly and there were guards posted at each exit to keep him from running away. Mycroft then retired to the small terrace in the garden with a glass of brandy. He thought about picking up a book—maybe a little Wodehouse, something cheerful—and trying to lose himself. He knew he had to stop replaying the decision in his mind. He knew perfectly well it was the right one. It wasn’t as if he and Lestrade were involved in a real relationship, after all. It was a minor flirtation and a bit of frantic groping—but that was most certainly due to the extreme situation, the stress, the need for . . . Well, Greg Lestrade was a tactile sort of person. He probably would have groped anyone, and it wasn’t really that he was attracted to Mycroft.

It was over. Greg was back to his normal life. All to the good. The important thing—the thing that truly mattered, was Sherlock’s recovery. His brother had made a promise and Mycroft expected him to keep it. Sherlock’s life, his health, his future were more than a fair trade for whatever might have been with the Detective Inspector.

 Mycroft wandered into the library looking for his reading glasses and caught sight of them atop a slim, green volume of poetry someone had left lying on the table. He picked up both the glasses and the book, peering at the cover. Wislawa Szymborska.

 _Oh dear_. He’d met the shy, grey lady once and been tongue-tied. Few people—apart from handsome policemen—managed to fluster him, but occasionally a writer or musician of great talent put him in awe. He opened the book to where someone had turned down a page—certainly not Sherlock, must have been Mrs. Stubbs.

 

_Here we are, naked lovers,_

_beautiful to each other—and that's enough._

_The leaves of our eyelids our only covers,_

_we're lying amidst deep night._

 

Mycroft closed the book quickly. That sort of nonsense was going to put him on a well-traveled road to sleeplessness, he was sure.

Mycroft rose to look through his briefcase for some articles on local politics in India to dull his senses. He was starting to nod off a few minutes later when his mobile buzzed and he found he had received a text message. Unusual. Everyone knew he detested texting. Sherlock was the only one who . . 

_Good to see you again after so long, Mike. Looking forward to more time together after things are sorted with S. Did you find my reading glasses?_

_Cheerio,_

_GL_

 Mycroft’s heart was hammering. He was perspiring, having a bit of trouble breathing, and felt disoriented.

_He knows. How long has he known? He wants to spend more time together? What can he possibly mean?_

Elation became despair.

He couldn’t see Greg again. He’d signed a treaty with Sherlock, and that had to be honoured.

Mycroft placed a call to his IT security team and blocked Lestrade’s number from reaching his phone. This was, he knew, a dangerous thing to do, given that Greg might want to call someday to talk about some scrape Sherlock was in—or seek Mycroft’s help for an injured Sherlock. Mycroft would simply have to find other ways to keep track of his brother. More cameras, more operatives, more listening devices.

Mycroft carefully removed Greg’s glasses and placed them in the drawer of his bedside table, along with all the papers and photographs. All the memories. He locked the drawer and walked to the window, feeling the crunch of broken glass underfoot. He took a deep breath, found his target, and threw the key into the koi pond in the garden below.

He stepped silently down the hallway to Sherlock’s room, pulled the duvet up over his brother’s shoulders, felt his forehead to be sure the fever had not returned, and folded himself into the plush new chair.

Even if Sherlock really did succeed in staying clean and sober, Mycroft reckoned he’d never be free from concern, given the dangers of Sherlock’s new profession. Mycroft just wouldn’t have time for holding on to things ordinary men deemed important. No time for holding on to people, or to memories. He had to worry about his brother.

Constantly.

 

 


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were further developments after John Watson left Mycroft Holmes at the warehouse.  
> Betaed by fengirl88

“You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. . . . Welcome back.”

  
Mycroft turned and walked away, allowing himself a smirk and a theatrical twirl of his umbrella. Watson’s sarcastic observation was correct, of course. Mycroft was never above adding a bit of drama to any situation. He and Sherlock shared a flair for the dramatic in their DNA, just as surely as they shared pale cheeks, graceful hands, and intellectual gifts that complicated their relationships with lesser men.

  
Mycroft tossed off one last ominous warning for good measure, “Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson.”

  
As John climbed into the car with “Anthea,” Mycroft entered a small office at the back of the warehouse where Lestrade was waiting, leaning against a long steel table, arms folded across his chest, brow furrowed. On the table were two archival boxes and several brown folders containing all the details of the doctor’s fairly ordinary but honorable life—made less ordinary, certainly, by the fact that he was responsible for saving at least six dozen lives and mending countless others. But the documents only went so far.

  
 _We’ll just have to wait and see whether Dr. Watson is strong enough—mind and_ _body—to fight beside Sherlock on this battlefield_ , thought Lestrade.

The D.I. took a step towards Mycroft and shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to assert what little authority he felt he had here. “Let’s get those files back to the therapist’s office and the Ministry of Defence, shall we? You can’t hold them much longer before someone notices they’re missing.”

  
“Yes, fine. I’ll dispatch Carlos to return them shortly. But are we satisfied, Detective Inspector Lestrade, that John Watson will be an adequate partner for my brother? Tell me your impressions.”

Mycroft lowered his chin and pursed his lips, searching Lestrade’s face for any sign of hesitation.

Lestrade temporarily avoided Mycroft’s gaze—always so intense when they were alone together. He looked at the stack of files, methodically ticking through details—those he had gleaned from a quick read, from his brief encounter with Watson over the corpse of Jennifer Wilson, and from watching the doctor’s interactions with Sherlock so far.

“I think so, yes,” said Lestrade cautiously, “from what I could make out. They’ve only just met, so he’s still amazed at Sherlock’s tricks. Hasn’t seen his darker side yet, I reckon. And the doctor needs to learn how to push back, be more a teammate and less an audience—but he’ll get there soon enough. And at least he showed you that he can’t be bought off easily—despite the fact he’s got no money to speak of. That’s a good sign.”

Mycroft nodded. “Seems not to be afraid of me—also a good sign. Although I did detect a whiff of fear towards the end of our conversation. But he did  
not let it dictate his actions. Sensible, calm, forthright. Rational under stress, but not overly cerebral. Similar to yourself, in that way. An exceedingly good match for Sherlock all around, don’t you think?”

Lestrade smiled, ignoring the “not overly cerebral” jab. He decided to put to rest Mycroft’s unspoken concern with a little more sensible, calm  
forthrightness.

“You know I never really wanted the babysitting job, Mycroft. I just did it because I knew you needed another pair of eyes on him. I’ll be glad to let this Watson character take over, if that’s what you want. I really don’t need to be your brother’s best—or only —friend anymore. Maybe now you and I can be friends?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think I want . . .”

Lestrade took two steps forward, his smile broadening as he hooked his left index finger around Mycroft’s gold watch chain. _I cannot believe I’m_ _considering sleeping with a man who wears a fucking pocket watch,_ he thought.

A sudden injection of adrenaline and lust heated the blood in Lestrade’s veins. He’d forgotten how much he liked that feeling. He wanted to tug the chain and pull Mycroft in for a kiss. Wanted to feel the weight of him in his arms. Wanted to know what words he would whisper in the dark, when no one else was listening. They'd been a long time getting here, and it was surely time for them to let this happen--to make this happen, wasn't it?

  
 _Let’s just kick the door down and find out what’s on the other side. Jump off the edge and into the deep end_ , he told himself.

  
But he could see in Mycroft’s narrowed eyes and rigid posture that he still wasn’t ready to jump. Mycroft hated any loss of control and he hated surprises. He probably hated adrenaline too. And he wouldn’t kick down a door—or hire someone else to kick it down—unless he had an annotated list of what was on the other side. Mycroft obviously had not scheduled time today for surrendering to the desire he and Lestrade had been denying for five years. Nor was there an item on his To Do list labeled: Kiss Lestrade. Follow-up with mind-blowing shag. But Lestrade really couldn’t wait until the man cleared his calendar and got a memo drafted on the subject, could he?

  
Sliding his right hand around Mycroft’s neck and a finger under his collar to gently rub the fine, soft hairs at the nape, Lestrade gave one firm tug at the watch chain. The smell of expensive cologne and butter made him grin.

Mycroft allowed his body to be pulled within a few inches of Lestrade’s, then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and held it while Lestrade spoke. Lestrade moved closer, his fingertips skimming across Mycroft’s temple and combing gently through his hair.

  
“I’m glad you’ve found him a new friend. Maybe there’ll be fewer of those bloody midnight texts from now on. And maybe we can both stop worrying  
that he’s going to kill himself or blow up his flat out of boredom. Maybe we can worry about ourselves for a change, right?”

  
Lestrade’s lips touched Mycroft’s hot, flushed cheek; his hip pressed against what seemed to be a positive response in Mycroft’s trousers.

“You wanted Watson to _choose a side_. He’s chosen Sherlock,” whispered Lestrade, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s still hesitant, unyielding body.

  
A knot of unexpected emotion tightened in Lestrade’s throat as he continued, voice hoarse and low. “I choose you, Mike. I’m on your side. Always have been.” Lestrade was close enough to feel Mycroft’s heart pounding, to feel his eyes flutter open. Close enough, he thought, to hear the man’s synapses firing as he calculated the risks. Close enough to feel his toes clinging to the edge of the pool, afraid of drowning.

A playful grin spread across Lestrade’s face again as he looked into Mycroft’s eyes and demanded, “You have got to promise you won’t call your thugs to throttle me if I kiss you. I need your word on that, you scary, scary bastard.”

  
Two graceful hands on Lestrade’s arse and the clatter of an umbrella hitting the floor was the only answer he got. And Lestrade decided that was good enough.


End file.
